The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein

there. Don’t drag or you’ll get what littlest pig
got.”
    “Thank
you, sir.”
    He
retired; were sounds of brushing and washing. Wyoh and I finished arranging
table. “‘Bruises,’” I said. “Struggled all
night.’”
    “You
deserved it, you insulted me.”
    “How?”
    “You
failed to insult me, that’s how. After you drugged me here.”
    “Mmm.
Have to get Mike to analyze that.”
    “Michelle
would understand it. Mannie, may I change my mind and have a little piece of
that ham?”
    “Half
is yours, Prof is semi-vegetarian.” Prof came out and, while did not look
his most debonair, was neat and clean, hair combed, dimples back and happy
sparkle in eye—fake cataract gone. “Prof, how do you do it?”
    “Long
practice, Manuel; I’ve been in this business far longer than you young
people. Just once, many years ago in Lima—a lovely city—I ventured
to stroll on a fine day without such forethought … and it got me
transported. What a beautiful table!”
    “Sit
by me, Prof,” Wyoh invited. “I don’t want to sit by him.
Rapist.”
    “Look,”
I said, “first we eat, then we eliminate me. Prof, fill plate and tell
what happened last night.”
    “May
I suggest a change in program? Manuel, the life of a conspirator is not an easy
one and I learned before you were born not to mix provender and politics.
Disturbs the gastric enzymes and leads to ulcers, the occupational disease of
the underground. Mmm! That fish smells good.”
    “Fish?”
    “That
pink salmon,” Prof answered, pointing at ham.
    A
long, pleasant time later we reached coffee/tea stage. Prof leaned back, sighed
and said, “
Bolshoyeh spasebaw, Gospazha
ee Gospodin
.
Tak
for mat
, it was wonderfully good. I don’t know when I’ve felt
more at peace with the world. Ah yes! Last evening—I saw not too much of
the proceedings because, just as you two were achieving an admirable retreat, I
lived to fight another day—I bugged out. Made it to the wings in one long
flat dive. When I did venture to peek out, the party was over, most had left,
and all yellow jackets were dead.”
    (Note:
Must correct this; I learned more later. When trouble started, as I was trying
to get Wyoh through door, Prof produced a hand gun and, firing over heads,
picked off three bodyguards at rear main door, including one wearing bull
voice. How he smuggled weapon up to The Rock—or managed to liberate it
later—I don’t know. But Prof’s shooting joined with
Shorty’s work to turn tables; not one yellow jacket got out alive.
Several people were burned and four were killed—but knives, hands, and
heels finished it in seconds.)
    “Perhaps
I should say, ‘All but one,’” Prof went on. “Two
cossacks at the door through which you departed had been given quietus by our
brave comrade Shorty Mkrum … and I am sorry to say that Shorty was lying
across them, dying—”
    “We
knew.”
    “So.
Dulcet et Decorum
. One guard in that doorway had a damaged face but
was still moving; I gave his neck a treatment known in professional circles
Earthside as the Istanbul twist. He joined his mates. By then most of the
living had left. Just myself, our chairman of the evening Finn Nielsen, a
comrade known as ‘Mom,’ that being what her husbands called her. I
consulted with Comrade Finn and we bolted all doors. That left a cleaning job.
Do you know the arrangements backstage there?”
    “Not
me,” I said. Wyoh shook head.
    “There
is a kitchen and pantry, used for banquets. I suspect that Mom and family run a
butcher shop for they disposed of bodies as fast as Finn and I carried them
back, their speed limited only by the rate at which portions could be ground up
and flushed into the city’s cloaca. The sight made me quite faint, so I
spent time mopping in the hall. Clothing was the difficult part, especially
those quasi-military uniforms.”
    “What
did you do with those laser guns?”
    Prof
turned bland eyes on me. “Guns? Dear me, they must have disappeared.